


never return

by Lethildiren



Series: buttercup [3]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Illness, Other, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Religious Content, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 19:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14940375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lethildiren/pseuds/Lethildiren
Summary: “There is a prophecy. The Angel, the one who has seen the Surface... they will return. And the Underground will go empty.”(or: there are no angels, above or below. Chara understands this.)





	never return

**Author's Note:**

> It's remarkably easy to get into Chara's head, these days; I think they'll always be my favorite.
> 
> This story, perhaps, takes place on the day they began to crack. Or perhaps it takes place before. After? I'll leave it up to you. It does, however, take place just before one other specific event; that can't be contested.
> 
> And that's where everything begins to spiral downward.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

It begins not with a question, or an idle remark. It begins with an exclamation. Quiet. Astonished. A murmur in a crowd.  _ “Angel above,” _ they say, in the same tone that a Human would state ‘dear God.’ They point; they whisper. They whisper of  _ prophesy. _

It is enough with the first occurrence. Certainly, the second. But the third. The third is where you feel an obligation. The third is when Asgore Dreemurr himself, taken by surprise. Utters another damnable “Angel above.”

“This is incredible,” the massive King rumbles, fully unfurling the blueprint the s̛̕k͏̡̢͟e̸̴͘͢͞l͏̸̶e̴̛͟t̢̨̢̛͢o͘n̸͘ has presented unto him. Amusingly, perhaps, it fits the dining table perfectly. “Your design, Doctor G̶͢͞͞ą̸̕͏ş̵̶t̢͝͞e̴̵̡͞r҉̢?"

The s̸̸̸͜͡k͟͝ȩl̶̡͠͡͠e̷t̢̡ǫ̵̨͟ņ̛͟ nods their head; a wry grin carved into their marbled skull. “Yes, milord. With assistance from Professor Omegus and her daughter.” Their hands, detached from their wrists and floating freely. Trace shapes into the air. Gesture as they speak. A language of Monsters, and Monsters alone; one crafted by necessity, you have been told. Although. By  _ whom _ is another matter in of itself.

“Golly,” Asgore murmurs. “And this will power the  _ entire _ Underground?” Your brows lift upward at that; the Underground is truly enormous, considering the minute crevices and scattered residences. To power it  _ all? _ That would be… impressive. Most impressive.

“Yes,” ͢G͏̶͠ą̸͜͠s̡̧͞t̵̡e͜҉̵͟r͘ confirms. “All of it. We've not seen true efficiency like this since the days of Castle Ebott.” They sound proud. But then they grin with humor. “It will not be cheap, of course. I merely wanted your approval, before abruptly absconding with half your treasury.”

Asgore laughs, then; nothing loud and high, like his wife or child, but a low, quiet chuckle. “We will not exactly be using it for anything, Doctor. Take as much as you need.”

The good Doctor says they shall, and departs. Soon, so does the King. But you remain.

Wondering.

* * *

The next day; you find it within you to deign to sit down and eat dinner with your new family. This has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Toriel’s made you chocolate pie, of course. Not a chance.

(“Be _ quiet, _ Asriel.”)

The thought occurs to you suddenly. Without forewarning. You voice it immediately, deciding the answer to be far more valuable than the atmosphere of a  _ simple family meal. _ “Toriel.”

“Yes, Chara?” Her voice is soft; old. But it carries a youthful eagerness. It is perhaps the least peculiar detail of the woman you now know to be your mother.

A pause. Choose your words carefully, now. “What does the term  _ ‘angel above’ _ refer to?”

Toriel is silent for the duration it takes her to finish consuming her own personal slice of pie. (It's smaller than your own.) Then she hums, thoughtfully, and smiles. “A good question, dear. Are you—” she nods, suddenly. At the sight of your vacant plate. “Yes? Okay. If you would like, you may follow me and I will show you. It will not be a long walk.” She sits up. Smooths the front of her robe. You rise shortly thereafter; Asriel looks as if he wishes to join you, but instead remains seated to finish eating.

Toriel takes you to a section of New Home that you are unfamiliar with. The walls are smooth and white, like marble; the floor is adorned with illustrious rugs, and candles up on the walls burn with eternal flames. The insignia of the Kingdom of Monsters lies directly ahead, in a stained glass window. The air itself feels solemn.

It reminds you of a church.

Indeed; one lone Monster sits at a bench, a child sleeping in her lap. She is murmuring something to them; a lullaby? Or…  _ prayer. _ “This is a very old building,” Toriel informs you. “It was constructed… oh, not longer than two years after we returned to this part of the Underground. Eighty years ago, I think.”

“What is its purpose?” You are not here for a long-winded history lesson. Toriel smiles.

“Hope. That symbol up in the window, or on my robe, or most other places in this city, symbolizes it for many people. It is called the ‘Delta Rune.’” She points to the window. A winged circle, over three inverted triangles. “The symbols signify—”

“Monsters,” you posit. Quietly. “The three triangles.” Toriel nods, smiling. 

“And the circle represents an Angel. The ‘Angel above,’ as you have heard.” Your head rotates to an angle of its own volition. “It is a very old story; older than the Barrier. It has changed since we arrived here, but the core of the legend remains the same.”

A pause. The lone Monster’s whispering grows slightly louder; enough for you to make out fragmentary words.  _ “—safeguard our SOULs, and free us from this prison—” _

“The Angel is to free Monsters from the Underground,” you guess. “And it is believed… that  _ I _ am the Angel.” Toriel nods, slowly, at that. You scoff. Derisively. “It is nonsense. I am not an angel. The concept is delusional.”

Toriel gives you a thin frown; one of dismay, more than anything. Then she crouches down, so that her eyes are on level with your own. Her crimson irises are but a shade paler than yours. “Chara, my child,” she begins, softly. “You may not believe it. But it is what we have.  _ ‘The Angel who has seen the Surface shall return,’” _ she quotes,  _ “‘and the Underground will go empty.’ _ That is our hope. That is our future.

“Yours, Chara.”

A sinking feeling wells up inside of your gut. She puts a hand on your shoulder. Your arms are locked to your sides. If they had not been. You would have flinched. “It is alright to be overwhelmed. We were, as well. I… hate to place such an important destiny on a child’s shoulders, but…” Her voice grows indistinct. Your mind is focused on something thoroughly different.

“Toriel,” you murmur, and the Queen of All Monsters falls silent. “If I am the Angel. And truly Human. What have I  _ returned _ to?”

She cannot answer that.

* * *

“Did Mom take you to see the temple?” Asriel is curious. This is no surprise. It is merely that he began his interrogation within minutes of your return.  _ That _ is the issue. “I like going there. It's got this really soothing sort of feeling in the air— the people that go there a lot put Green magic into it, and it makes it really, really  _ warm,  _ and—” You hold up a hand. His mouth shuts with a soft  _ click. _

“She did bring me to the temple. Yes.” You tilt your head. Asriel watches intently. “It was… as informative as I had surmised it would be.” Your lips curl downward; the child across from you, too, grimaces. You can conjecture. That it is because you just _ ruined the mood. _ You shake your head, and change the topic. You pick the replacement… on impulse. You regret it instantaneously; yet you speak too quickly to stop yourself. “Do you know what Human temples are most often intended for, Asriel?”

There is a pause. Asriel stares at you. Blankly. He blinks once; though you know it's only because he needs to, and not an indication of his bewilderment. “No,” he says, after a second. “Mom’s never told me, actually. Why do you ask?”

Ah.

_ That _ question. Was so poorly timed, you can surely only blame fate for forcing it upon you. Or yourself, for beginning… this conversation. Your frown deepens; Asriel cringes. You are aware.  _ He _ is aware. And even if he was not, the way your shoulders tensen and the way your jaw clenches does not leave room for inference. You do not like discussing things that stray close to the subject of  _ Them. _

You choose to disregard it.

“Religion,” you say, eventually. Asriel nods, mumbling the word to himself. Testing each individual syllable on his tongue. “The… practice of worshipping a deity. Singular or plural. It varies between cultures.” He doesn't get it. You incline your head to the left. “Surely, Monsters also have a creation myth. Do they not.”

He blinks. It  _ is _ to display his bewilderment, now. You sigh. Open your mouth to speak. Wondrously, he interrupts you. “I— actually, I think I know what you mean. I… Mom told me, once. It's an old, silly story— even  _ her _ mom didn't believe it when she told her it, and she was around… what, nine hundred years ago?” He grins. You do not mimic him; his expression, therefore. Does not last long. “I don't remember much of it,” he confesses, frowning. “But the basics were… Human and Monster Souls come from the same place. They used to be the same, basically. But— the one that came first, they gave the two different magic. So they turned out differently, even though they're the same.”

There is an ephemeral pause. “I see,” you say, simply. “Interesting.” He nods, looking uncertain of how to respond. You tilt your head. Make the jump. “Human religion does not even  _ acknowledge _ Monsters,” you say, scowling. “Except to portray them as living up to their name.” You find yourself reminiscing. Unwillingly. It bears little relation to the topic at hand, but… more to the circumstances.

_ And it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him. _ The most ill-fitting of verses. You can almost imagine him screaming. You aren't sure why you shudder.

“They do not often make themselves look good, either. It is… difficult to understand.” It is, truly. It was never necessary to evince the fact that Humans are reprehensible beings. Yet they did, anyway. “Religion… is law.  _ Do not worship false idols. _ Cursed words, truly. Wars have been waged over them. Massacres of innocents, over a meaningless sentence.” You are rambling. It's hard to stop. “Belief makes them fear sense. Belief makes them assume, infer,  _ condemn. _ Belief…”

You desire, suddenly, to look into a mirror. To look yourself in the eye. It would be better than to look your mental image in the eye. Certainly. “R— red eyes, because of most Human religions, are… associated with evil.”

Asriel's eyes widen. It is because your voice is shaking. You know it is. He can't imagine what you truly mean. He knows nothing of it. He… can't even guess. He's too good for that.

You feel as if your face is melting. Your eyes are runny. Hot, slick fluid tracing lines down your cheeks. You realize, at once, that you had nearly expected to rub at your face and peel skin from rotten flesh. All that has come up are tears. (When did you start crying?)

Asriel leans forward and opens his arms. You do not move an inch; he wraps his arms around you anyway. “I shouldn't have asked,” he mumbles, in spite of the fact that  _ he _ never asked anything. “I won't again. I'm sorry. I'm s-sorry.” He sniffles into your shoulder. You find yourself disgusted to realize. That he has also begun to cry. (Or are you disgusted with  _ yourself? _ You brought this on yourself. You did this.)

Your mind wanders to the Bible again.

Angels are those who deliver people from evil. Who herald good news, and bring goodness to good people. Merciful. Just. Kind, generous and humble.

You are none of those things. And no other Human has ever been.

Monsters…

“I'm not an angel,” you mumble back. You feel it would help. “Never, ever tell me that I am. And I will be fine.” You wish to say, _ You are instead. _ There is no place for it, now.

Asriel sobs softly into your shoulder. It is  _ that _ sound that elicits a sob from you.

Nothing else.

* * *

_ Come here, Charlotte. Let your grandmother see you. _

You hate them.

_ See now, Ma? She has the Devil’s eyes. _

You hate them so, so much. For what they've done to you.

_ Oh, no, the baptism didn't do anything. It's wormed its way into her heart, but I'm doing my best to choke it out. _

_ Smile for your grandmother, Charlotte. Show her how far we've come. _

You find yourself standing at the Dreemurr Household's balcony. Now, at this hour. The Underground is silent. Nary a sound can be heard. You drum your fingers along the railing separating yourself and a long, long drop.

You consider the first time you fell.

_ Are you a vampire? You look like one. _

You remember feeling as if you were weightless. Your ankle had bent. Broken. Snapped entirely. Just with the vine that tripped you. You'd felt no pain, because of simple adrenaline. You had felt other things. Air rushing past your face. A chill burning your eyes, a scream ripping out of your mouth. Long. Shrill. You had not been quite ready then. You hadn't intended to fall.

You find you are prepared now.

_ You're a freak, Charlie. You know what that means? It means your parents don't love you. It means God hates you. _

You feel tense. You feel… drained. Tired.

You lean over the railing.

_ No one would miss you if you just disappeared and never came back. _

_ ‘Those who climb the mountain never return.’ _

A laugh slips between your lips. Hoarse, rough. Hollow. It is not wrong. The warning. You comprehend it now. You will never return to the Surface. You do not desire to. You wish to stay below forever. Toriel’s cooking for breakfast, lunch, dinner. Asgore’s botany lessons. Asriel…  _ Asriel. _ A throne for you and yours; to sate your deepest desire. To be strong. It is… selfish, narcissistic.  _ Sociopathic. _ (You're not. You don't want to be.)

You are weak. You accept this. In that way, you are no psychopath.

…you do not want to be weak.

Good people are strong. Good people care. Good people, should they exist anywhere in the world, do not hold grudges. Not when the other half is deceased. You are not. You do not. You  _ do. _

It's so hard to bring yourself to care about the kingdom you find yourself looking out to now. Asriel, Toriel and Asgore… instigate a warmth in your chest. (You do not dare name it.) Little else does the same. You want to hate them for being special. For being  _ idiots. _ For loving you, when you can only harm them.

You love them, instead.

You climb over the railing, fingers curled tightly around the bars, and stand upon the edge.

You are not an angel. If they place their faith in someone so dispirited. So discontinuous. So  _ damaged… _ they will suffer. Yours is a meretricious hope; the calling of an Antichrist, as befitting of a title it is for one as  _ tainted _ as you. You would not willingly provide it to them, if you knew you could avoid it.

…

But you  _ can _ avoid it.

You are no messiah. You are a freak. A stranger to your own family. Conspicuous. Out of place. A demon, or the host of one.

You're a murderer.

You would like to become more than that. If you ever do return Above. One victim is so few… surely, when they all deserve it so, no one would fault you. Two. Three. Four.

You know Asriel would feel sick to his stomach. At the thought of  _ one. _

You feel nothing.

Not now.

You let go of the railing.

You've always had good balance. You do not stumble at the edge of the balcony. You will only fall deliberately. Yet… your breath catches in your throat. Your heartbeat stutters. Blood rushes in your ears. A feeling of dread weighs heavily upon you, inside your chest.

You understand the definition of  _ suicide. _ Its ramifications. Its consequences. You have witnessed a woman grieve over her husband, who poisoned himself to avoid a slow death. (You wonder, briefly, if she followed him.)

You know that Monsters cannot handle negativity like Humans can. Not grief nor despair.

Your death could cause that of the others.

Of…

Asriel.

It's always Asriel.

“God damn it.”

You exhale, slowly. Your breath is mist in the air. You are freezing, you realize, suddenly. Your sweater does not provide sufficient insulation, not in this season. Not at this hour. (Why are you worried about that  _ now.) _

You climb back over the railing, one leg at a time.

You will not die today.

_ I never asked for you. You weren't supposed to  _ happen. _ God… is testing me for my failures. That's all you are. All you'll ever be. _

_ You weren't supposed to exist. _

* * *

It is Asgore’s birthday today.

He is eight hundred and ninety-eight.

You are uncertain of how to respond.

Toriel has baked a cake. Chocolate, with candles that do not burn out independently. The flames are tinted purple, and smell of rosemary.  _ Toriel _ smells of rosemary. Today. She must have been baking well into the night, for the smell to linger as it does.

You wonder if she saw you, for just a moment. And then you force the thought down before it strangles your appetite.

You do not have a gift. You'd never inquired about Asgore’s birthday; you would have saved that pitiful excuse for a sweater for now, if you had been made aware of how close it was. Asriel doesn't have one, either, but that is unsurprising.

Still. You gather around the cake, singing a song.  _ Happy Birthday. _ It is… Human in origin, you know. But you stumble with the lyrics. You do not recognize them. You find yourself trailing behind Toriel, as a result. Listening to her melodic voice, and then repeating her with your own weak singing.

You finish. Asriel will cheer, so you provide your own half-hearted applause too. Asgore blows out the candles, and everyone laughs. Nothing was amusing; you don't get it.

You laugh anyway, so that you might feel more like them. Maybe you'll get it next time.

…

Asriel takes you aside, scant minutes later. He tells you something, between mouthfuls of cake.

He has an idea of what to do for your father today.

He wants to bake a pie.

**Author's Note:**

> This took me a month to write, all in all. I began with the first two scenes, and finished up everything else over the past two days. I'm still not entirely satisfied with it, but that can be said for nearly anything I write these days, and the fact that I finished it at midnight last night doesn't help. Heh.
> 
> I hope you like it, nonetheless. It _was_ fun to write.


End file.
